


remind me what's real

by earlymorningechoes



Category: Covert Affairs
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlymorningechoes/pseuds/earlymorningechoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan has a migraine on her and Arthur's day off, and he tries to make the day as easy for her as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	remind me what's real

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of a birthday gift for my absolutely amazing friend Maddy (littlemaddymoo) @tumblr.

     Joan rolled over and fumbled for the alarm clock, groaning when she was finally able to turn the incessant beeping off. Pulling the covers over her head, she curled into a ball and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the pain in her head would shut off as well.

     “Joan?” she heard Arthur ask from the doorway, “are you all right?”

     Unwinding from her cocoon, Joan attempted to sit up and instead flopped back down on the pillows. “Apparently not.”

     His footsteps receded from the room and came back quickly, and he handed her a cool washcloth that she draped over her forehead. “What hurts worst?” he asked.

     “Just my head,” she responded, mumbling. “Migraine.” Rolling onto her side with the washcloth over her face, she could hear Arthur moving around the room and closing the curtains to block out the light.

     “We’re off today anyways,” he told her, readying to close the door and let her go back to sleep. She gave him a weak thumbs-up before settling back down, breathing a sigh of relief as the door latched closed.

     Standing in the hallway, Arthur left his hand on the doorway for a moment, thinking quick good thoughts for his wife’s migraine to abate as quickly as possible. Heading down the stairs, he glanced into the kitchen and realized that they hadn’t taken the time to properly clean recently. A stack of dishes sat next to the sink, a laundry basket full of clean clothes sat by the stairs, and a forgotten pair of heels was caught under the edge of the sofa. Probably among other things that he would discover as soon as he actually started cleaning.

     So that’s what he did. As quietly as possible, Arthur moved around the first floor and tidied up, something he hadn’t done in quite a long while. Having a cleaning lady definitely made life easier, but today he was going to make sure all the dishes were put back exactly where Joan wanted them, not where the cleaning lady thought they were easier to get to.

 

     Some hours later, he heard soft footsteps padding down the stairs as he balled up socks in the bottom of the laundry basket. Looking up, he found Joan coming towards him in her bathrobe with wet hair, just out of the shower. He stood up to meet her and she wrapped him in an unexpected hug, her head resting on his shoulder.

     “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly, unsure of which migraine symptoms would have worn off first.

     “All right,” she answered, “a bit hungry.” She turned and walked towards the kitchen, Arthur following behind. He scooted past her when they got to the doorway, moving to stand by the fridge.

     “What would you like?” he asked, leaning on the counter. She gave him a small half-smile and reached for the bread box.

     “Just some toast. I’ll get it,” she told him, opening the box but releasing her hold when he reached over, shaking his head.

     “Sit down, Joan,” he responded, gesturing to the table, “I’ll make something for you.” Joan settled into one of the chairs, tracing the pattern of the word grain with her fingertips as she listened to her husband move about the kitchen, knowing exactly where to grab her favorite jam from before handing her a plate with the lightly browned toast. She ate it much more slowly than usual, enjoying the peaceful time to sit with Arthur as he retrieved the paper and started in on the crossword puzzle – something he didn’t often have time for.

     After finishing her toast, Joan decided to head back up to bed for a bit, and Arthur returned to the laundry basket of socks resting on the living room couch. When finished with both that and the newspaper crossword, he ventured into his study for something other than work. Pulling one of the books he’d been telling himself he’d read at some point in the hypothetical future off of the shelf, he settled back onto the couch with a sigh.

 

     By the time he looked up, he could see the sun sinking towards the horizon through the big front windows, and Joan was padding down the stairs again, this time looking more like her normal self, although still clothed in her bathrobe. They moved to the kitchen again, this time with Arthur preparing what he knew was still Joan’s favorite supper – fettuccine alfredo with chicken, simple and sweet and the dinner they’d shared the night they’d tried to go out on a date but had gotten snowed in.

     After she finished eating, Joan stepped over to the radio in the corner and turned it on low, the CD inside one of slow, languid songs they’d gotten someplace in Italy. Reaching for Arthur’s hand, still resting on the table, she laced her fingers with his.

     “Dance with me?” she asked, pulling gently to get him to stand with her. He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her towards him, and she leaned her head on his chest with a feeling of closeness they hadn’t been able to reach in a while. They revolved slowly on the spot in the dying light from outside, the music washing over them in low tones to match the golden hues.

     The music of the CD ran out, and the birdsong of the day gave way to the chirping crickets of the night, and still Joan and Arthur stood together in their kitchen, her in her bathrobe and he in old jeans and a t-shirt, dancing together and holding one another, reminding one another that whatever happened, whatever they were going back to tomorrow, this was real.


End file.
